


You

by shawleyleres



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Grief, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV First Person, Two Years Later, post-TRF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 23:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10347009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawleyleres/pseuds/shawleyleres
Summary: John is still grieving Sherlock two years after his death. He believes he's mildly hallucinating when he sees a familiar shape  among the well-lit rooftops through the window of 221b. His thoughts send him into a spiral of grief, but he doesn't know that what he saw was real. Sherlock was coming back to him.





	1. Grief

**Author's Note:**

> I'll just start off by saying that I'm sorry. 
> 
> This is cathartic writing. I was really needing the angst.
> 
> Dedicated to my partner in writing crime, Violino. Thank you for inspiring me to write again. <3

It’s been nearly two years, but it feels like a lifetime. 

I’m standing by the window in my flat - our flat - overlooking the city I’ve grown to hate. Everything reminds me of Sherlock. I don’t know why I came back to Baker Street. It pains me to be here, but I can’t be anywhere else. I’ve tried to leave but I don’t know how to let go. How to move on. I can’t walk down a side street without remembering one of our adventures. I can’t pass a restaurant without thinking about how Sherlock always made a point to make sure I was well fed even when he himself wasn’t hungry. Being surrounded by his possessions is as comforting as it is heartbreaking, leaving me in a stasis. I can’t get better or worse in this place. Sometimes I sit in his chair by the unlit fireplace. I sit long enough that the leather warms against me and I pretend that it’s him holding me, embracing me gently. He never held me, but I think he wanted to. I wish he had.

It doesn’t make up for his absence. Now that he’s gone, I barely remember to eat on my own. When I look down at myself I don’t recognize my own body anymore. My clothes hang awkwardly. They’re a bit big on me now. Mrs. Hudson tries to feed me up all the time, but I can’t eat. There’s no joy in it. There’s no flavor. All of my senses are dull since he’s been gone. I can’t experience anything with any clarity without him. I don’t remember what my life was like before Sherlock. I don’t want to remember it. I don’t even think I truly had one before him. I was just existing back then. But Sherlock - he made me live.

The mug of once hot tea has grown cold in my hands as I gaze out the window. I never even took a sip. Typical. I set it on the windowsill, looking back up at the city. My eyes begin to lose focus as I stand there, watching the pinpoints of light on the buildings turn to orbs and flickering like so many stars. Flash of remembrance to the alleyway where Sherlock once pointed out the beauty of the cosmos. I didn’t think he cared about those kinds of things. I was wrong. I was always wrong when it came to Sherlock. 

I’m caught up in my thoughts when my sight picks up a change on one of the rooftops bringing me back to the present. I swear I saw a flash of cloth in the distance. Just my mind playing tricks again. I can’t even really remember what his coat looks like anymore or the way his dark hair parted and fell along his angular face or the glimmer of his pale green eyes or the sight of his long fingers dancing along the neck of his violin producing the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard - aside from his voice. I watch the DVD Lestrade gave me from time to time. The one Sherlock made me for my birthday but never gave me. Sometimes I wonder why he didn’t. It’s not enough to see him and hear him that way. It’s not really him. It doesn’t do him justice, it’s just a picture. A tiny speaker and few pixels on a cold screen can’t convey the warmth of his skin, the dulcet tone of his voice, the quick sharp movements he made when he was excited. It’s a small fragment of the man I knew. The man I loved. 

Suddenly I feel as though I can’t breathe. Like someone has knocked the wind from my lungs and stabbed me in the chest. The pain I feel is worse than when I was wounded in combat, as though someone has punched a hole through me, tearing my heart out of its cavity on the way out. I double over as a sob bubbles up, charging it’s way past my teeth, forcing my mouth open and bursting out into the quiet of the night breaking the silence. I’m sinking onto the floor, clasping my hand over my mouth trying to shove back the emotions, but I can’t. The grief overcomes me as I press my hands into the floor, feeling hot tears slide down my cheeks against the cool air. 

As quickly as it comes, I stop it. No. I’m not doing this again. I push myself to stand, wipe the tears from my eyes and inhale deeply, straightening my posture, clenching both hands to my side. I turn sharply toward the kitchen and push myself forward, stumbling a bit, trying not to yield to the grief again. This is the battle I fight now. It’s endless. Unyielding. Eternal. 

Hand to the tabletop as I enter the kitchen. Steady. Deep breath. I feel the pain beginning to creep in again, the wound threatening to reopen. Almost to the bathroom now, hand sliding across the wall for support. My vision is blurry. More tears. Another deep breath. I can’t see anymore. Blink. Tears fall, landing on my foot as I step into his room. I feel myself start to slip. I barely make it to the bed, my torso collapsing onto the mattress, the collision of my body with his sheets forcing the wound open once more. Heat fills my chest as I grip the sheets, pulling myself onto the cold bed. My trembling hand finds his pillow. I slide it under me and bury my face into it. It smells like nothing now. Just air. My chest tightens, another sob beginning to force its way out. It’s noiseless this time. My arms begin to shake beneath me as I press my body down into the mattress, trying to escape, wishing I could fall through into the Earth. 

Wishing I could disappear.


	2. Elation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is dreaming again. Of Sherlock. It's his only comfort. 
> 
> He starts to come out of it, fighting to stay inside his mind, but begins to realize that his dream has become a reality. 
> 
> He's really there. He's come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...here it is!
> 
> I hope it was worth the brief wait. <3 
> 
> Please leave feedback! Good or bad. I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3 :)

I wake up in tears.

I’m not sobbing this time, but my heart is pounding and my head is swimming wildly with thoughts and I feel as though I can’t breathe. I’m disoriented and temporarily forgetting where I am. This has happened before. It happens all the time. Another nightmare. I’m okay. As okay as I’m capable of being. I bring a hand up to my chest and breathe deeply, my breath audibly shaking on the inhale. With my eyes still closed, I breathe slowly. Exhaling, attempting to find peace, whatever that means. I feel a shifting of the sheets to my right. Probably from my own feet, I don’t know. I feel so disconnected most of the time. Most things just fall by the wayside, ignored. I don’t investigate. I turn myself on my side, forcing my eyes open to stare into the darkness of the room when I feel a strong hand slowly sliding up my back to grip my waist.

“John? What’s the matter?”

Oh. This again. I’m dreaming. I’ll take what I can get. It’s the only solace I have now.

I focus on Sherlock’s voice. It’s heavy from sleep but warm and velvety, cementing me into the moment. The only way I can remember the sound of his voice is in here. In this place between sleep and wakefulness. Reality and fiction blending together to ease my pain just for a moment. Transient.

“Just...had a nightmare. I’m alright.” I bring my hand to rest on his and he lifts his fingers up to intertwine with mine, in the same motion, pulling me back toward him to hold me against his chest. I feel him breathing slowly against me enveloping me in the warmth of his body. He tips his head down to nuzzle into the back of my neck, his breath ghosting over my skin, bringing his head up to rest against mine and on the pillow behind me. I feel his breath tickling my hair. It feels so real. “Do you want to talk about it?” he mumbles into my scalp. He still sounds sleepy and it’s adorable. _Adorable._ He’d hate me for calling him that. The admiration I feel brings warmth to my thoughts and the images of my nightmare begin to fade from my mind. He has that effect on me.

With his arm still wrapped around me, I turn myself to face him meeting his soft gaze immediately. Butterflies. Instantly. Every single time I lock eyes with him, I feel them. Or at least I used to. When he was still alive. He brings his hand up, and wipes a tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. I watch his eyes as he scans my face. It’s dark but I can still make out the flecks of gold among the sea of blue as they flicker down to my chin where a few tears still linger. His hand travels up to my lips. He traces my bottom lip with his fingers and leans forward to kiss the evidence of my nightmare from my chin, erasing it completely. He kisses up my jaw, to my ear. “I love you, John. I -”

I’m losing it. The dream is fading. I still feel his mouth against my ear, whispering to me. The image begins to blur.

“ - always have. I’m sorry. I’m - ”

I feel myself slipping further out, back into my dull existence. I can’t leave this, not yet. His voice is still there, clearly, clearer than anything in recent memory. Why? I don’t want to question it. I need to hang on.

“ - so sorry I - ”

I can’t come out of this. It’s all I have. The dream fades quickly, and I’m aware of the darkness of the room. Eyes still closed, not wanting to open them and face reality. But in a split second I’m aware of the presence of another. The breath on my ear. The warmth against my skin. This is real, but I can’t believe that it is. How is this real?

“ - did this to you. I’ve missed you so much. So much. I’m so sorry, John.” It’s his voice. It’s Sherlock. He’s really here.

My heart begins to race. Not from grief, but elation. I bring my trembling hand up to touch him, pressing it against his soft skin, feeling the heat and resistance of his body against my palm. He’s solid. Present. He brings his hand to mine, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles, comforting me. The light touch breaking the stagnant lifeless water of my existence and sending waves of chills rippling across my body. I want to speak, but I can’t. I wouldn’t even know what to say if I could speak. I want to try. I open my mouth, partly from wanting to say something, anything, and partly because the feeling of his body against mine has awoken every sense in me. Pulling me quickly to the surface, the first gasp of fresh air rushing to my tired lungs after two years spent slowly suffocating, quietly sinking to the bottom of the ocean waiting to drown.

“I want to help you to forget all of the pain I’ve caused you. I love you. I love you.” he whispers. I want to tell him that I already have forgotten. That he’s already erased the pain simply by existing, but I don’t bother speaking because words are useless here. I don’t know how it’s possible that he’s here, but I can’t question it right now. It can wait. I let out a deep sigh of relief and gently push myself against him bringing my lips to the pale column of his gorgeous neck to kiss my response. Something I’ve yearned to do since I met him. A kiss for every word of thought in my head.

The first kiss is light and quick, barely detectable if it weren’t for my nose making contact with his skin, breathing in his unique and familiar scent. Woodsy and earthy, yet sweet and citrusy. Warm, like rays of sunshine against my face on a cool autumn day.

_‘I’_

The second one lasts much longer. My mouth opens slightly, tongue grazing his neck. I taste the salt on his skin.

_'love'_

The third one is more sensual than the last. I open my mouth wider to taste more of him, pushing my tongue against his neck and lightly massaging it against his skin. The feeling of my lips and tongue against him eliciting a low moan deep from his throat which I can feel vibrating against my lips.

 _'you_ '

The last one I save for his mouth. Pushing myself up on my hands to reach him, I kiss up his jaw, to his chin, the same pattern he kissed on me in what I thought was a dream, finally hovering over his lips. The last one is light as a feather. I brush my lips against his slowly.

_'too.'_

I continue to repeat the motion of my lips brushing along his. With mindfulness, I take note of the things which make him uniquely who he is. Reminding myself of all the little details which I could only remember in my dreams, now coming back to life vividly before me. I reach my hand up to brush my fingers through his soft dark brown hair, maintaining the light motion of my lips moving against his. I feel his chest lifting to meet mine as his breathing quickens at my touch. He wanted to help me forget my pain, but I want to show him what I’ve longed to show him. That I love him. That I need him.

Leaving his hair, I brush my fingertips lightly against his face, feeling the shape of his cheekbones, noticing the smoothness of his skin. As he reaches up to wrap his other arm around me, I intercept it, running my hand up his strong forearm, fingers meeting his wrist, the large expanse of his palm. My fingertips gently gliding up the length of his seemingly endless fingers to meet the tips of mine with his, the sensations creating an electricity which shoots right down between my legs, my need growing. As our hands meet, I flick my tongue out to lick the very center of his upper lip brushing his cupid’s bow, and lightly sucking his lip up into my mouth. He presses himself up into me and I feel his need reciprocated against my thigh. I reach down between our bodies to grip him and as soon as my hand makes contact, he moans. The deep tone of his voice makes my head swim. It’s beautiful. It’s everything.

I slowly work my hand up the length of him noticing the contrast. Soft, yet hard. It takes my breath away. His voice rings out again moaning my name. “John, please.” One more stroke of my hand, but slower this time. “Oh God...please.” he’s breathless, so it’s barely a whisper but I hear it as though it were a shout for the effect it has on me. He lightly thrusts into my hand, not wanting to be too forceful, and the motions are enough for me. I lift myself up, allowing him to place his hand on me as well, the contact sending my stomach into a somersault. He reaches up with his free hand to touch my hair, gazing deeply into my eyes and as he does, I slowly work my hand up his shaft. He mimics my motions, causing us to moan in unison. I watch his face as he moans, his brow furrowing, forming a perfect _'Y'_ with the bridge of his nose, his mouth opening gently, an _'O'_ , and his jaw as he tilts his head back, a _'U'_. Even his body tells me - 'it’s _you_ who he wants, who he’s always wanted. Nobody else.'

Our hands move slowly, beginning to form a rhythm. As we move against each other, I can no longer keep my eyes open to watch him. The feeling of his cock sliding in and out of my hand slowly transports me and I forget everything. Who I am, where I am. It’s just the two of us. His body against mine. As we work our hands up and down each other’s length I feel my orgasm begin to creep up on me. Two years of need, the memories, the feelings, all sucked into the event horizon of this moment.

He brings his arm up around my torso to pull me down to him and as my chest meets his, he holds me gently and thrusts into my hand slowly but with just the right amount of pressure. It’s rough, yet soft. It’s dynamic. It’s Sherlock. I bring my mouth to his for a kiss, pushing my tongue past his lips to find his, feeling the hot silkiness of his tongue gliding against mine. I’m close. I can feel his body begin to shake beneath me signaling his nearing orgasm. The pleasure is so profound that I can’t even move my mouth against his anymore. Our mouths are open, lips pressed together, gasping and moaning. With a sharp intake of breath, I feel him release into my hand, moaning my name loudly, causing me to thrust into his hand as I begin to climax. He’s still thrusting against me, and just as I reach my peak I breathlessly speak his name into the cool air of the night. The sound of my own voice startles me. It's no longer week and feeble, but strong, even in its softness.

As I come down, back to the present, I collapse against his body, noticing the warmth in my chest. The feeling as though I’m about to burst instead of be torn apart. Expanding instead of collapsing. He plants a kiss to my forehead as he runs his hand through my hair. My breathing begins to slow along with his, and as it does, I listen to his heart beating against his chest. It’s strong and steady. The warm expansion in my chest reaches my throat and gets stuck there, I swallow harshly, realizing the emotion is of a different kind now. I let it envelop me as tears begin to flow. Tears of relief, of joy.

He’s here. He’s here. _He’s here._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and please leave feedback if you can!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr as shawleyleres. Come yell at me if you feel like it? I probably deserve it after this.


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